by Ryan Gebhart
A car engine rumbles from outside, then shuts off. Mom’s home.
She opens the side door and natural light pours in behind her. In each hand she’s holding a bunch of full plastic shopping bags. Her eyes are furious, but her expression eases up when she sees Shugar and Andy. It’s good to have friends over when Mom’s pissed — she’ll never yell at me in front of company. “Hi, boys,” she says.
“Hi, Debbie,” they both say.
“How was the store?” I say.
“Where did you go?” She’s fighting to keep that semi-smile propped up.
“Um . . . it was ridiculous in there? I was about to have, like, a heatstroke.”
“You could have at least told me you were leaving.”
“I did. I texted you three times.”
She gives me an annoyed glare. It’s so frustrating how she always thinks I’m making shit up.
I say, “You wanna check my phone?”
“There wasn’t any service in Meijer,” Shugar says.
She looks up, like something else is suddenly on her mind. “Were you smoking? You know I don’t like you smoking pot.”
I say, “Everyone seems to think we’re about to be invaded. Might as well enjoy these last days on Earth.”
“No. Pot.”
I’m at least thankful that she’s now more concerned about weed than an alien invasion. She’s calmed down a lot since this morning, and I’m guessing it’s because she took her meds.
“Love you, Mom.” I wave good-bye, hoping she’ll take the hint.
Her back’s turned like she’s about to leave. She’s so close, but then . . . “You decide what you want for your birthday?”
“That’s right,” Shugar says. “Scrobes here is going to be the big one-eight.”
“Why do you call him that?” Mom says.
“Scrobes. ScroboCop. It’s because his —”
I give an awkward-angled, weak kick to the side of his chair. I mean, my nickname isn’t some dark secret — it’s just something Mom doesn’t need to know about.
She says, “Your father and Avery are coming. They wanted to know what to get you.”
A thin, sharp feeling slices my chest. Dad’s coming? He never told me anything about that.
I set my jaw. “How long are they going to be here?”
“He called just a few minutes ago. I told him with all that’s going on, it’s not the best time to be traveling, but your father has some vacation time saved up and he said he wanted to see you for your birthday and Thanksgiving. He said he’d be in Maumee for the week.”
“A week?” I’m short on breath just saying those words. “What are they going to be doing for a whole week?”
“Spending time with you, I’d imagine. Is that a problem?”
Dad always wants to do things — visit the art museum, go out to restaurants that require a dress shirt, and I’m probably going to have to watch a play with them. Fuuuuuck. The Nutcracker better not be playing at the Valentine this year.
No. It plays there. Every year, starting right after Thanksgiving.
I’d already made plans with Shugar and Andy for my birthday — call in sick to school and hang out.
My hand’s on my face like a bug splattered on a windshield.
I say, “Is Abby coming too?”
“He didn’t say. But we thought it would be best if we had separate Thanksgivings with you. How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t care.”
“We’ll talk about the arrangements later, Ducky. You’ve got company. It was nice seeing you boys.” With her hands full, she shuts the door in this awkward maneuver with her foot and shoulder.
“Why are you weirding out?” Andy says. “Don’t you want to see your dad?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“Just shut the fuck up.”
I’ve known Andy and Shugar since Mom made me join the swim league at Brandywine the summer before sixth grade, but I’ve barely told them anything about my life before Ohio. It’s true, I get annoyed whenever Dad comes to visit, and they’ve asked if he beat me as a child or if he abandoned me. But Dad would never dream of harming me or Avery. And he didn’t leave us. Mom was the one driving the U-Haul out of Austin, and I was in the passenger seat with Princess on my lap.
It was the most confusing and frustrating time of my life. Mom told me she found a new job in Ohio and asked me if I wanted to come with her, but Dad wasn’t going to be joining us. Dad told me that I had a younger brother, his name was Avery, and his mom’s name was Abigail MacGregor. He said he would visit me whenever he got the chance, I was always welcome at his house — our house, he insisted — and if there was ever anything I needed, to just let him know.
It took me a while to get rid of my Texas accent, but every now and then it slips out and I’ll catch myself saying “y’all” instead of “you guys” or “soda” instead of “pop.” And I was the last of my Ohio friends who learned how to play euchre.
I don’t know why I’ve never really trusted Shugar or Andy. In Texas I could tell my best friend Dustin Freidrich anything, but I guess in elementary school there wasn’t anything scandalous to share other than who I was crushing on at the moment. He was a good guy, kinda boring, and we promised we’d never get into anything like drugs or alcohol. As far as I know, he’s kept his end of that agreement.
I’ve already selected Baby Mario and the red Koopa, but Shugar and Andy are just sitting in their chairs, allowing this awkward silence to simmer. At some point someone turned down the volume, and now you can barely make out the music.
“Pick your characters,” I say.
We race Baby Park three more times, and I’ve got the floor fan blowing the smoke out the side door. I know it’s common courtesy to offer weed to everyone in the room, but me and Andy went halfsies on it, so if Shugar wants any, he’s gotta contribute funds.
My phone buzzes. I hit pause. There’s a red shell frozen in time tailing my ass.
I check my phone.
Hey it’s Adriana from the party. Hmu if you want to chat :)
I don’t respond because it would be wrong to lead her on. She seems like a nice girl, and her brother Chris told me she’s had a crush on me since last year, but she’s not . . . well, she’s not Jenny.
My phone alerts me again. Holy hell. Jenny followed me back.
“Would you cut it out, Scrobes?” Shugar says.
She DM-ed me:
Haha did you have to use google translate on that one? Come over today if you’re not busy.
My testes are tingling and there’s, like, boy band music playing in my head. Last night wasn’t a one-night stand.
My finger’s hovering over the screen. I’m trying to think of something funny to respond with.
I message back:
K.
I’m sure I reek of weed, so I go to the house to brush my teeth, change into a fresh set of clothes, and give myself a spritz of cologne from an arm’s distance away. I wet my hair, but it looks like I’m trying too hard to impress, so I mess it up, smooth it down, then mess it up again in just the right spots, like I don’t care.
When I return to the garage, Andy is stretched out on the couch, playing one of the cheesy breakup songs he wrote about Miranda Hernandez on his acoustic, and Shugar’s playing Mario Kart solo.
He says, “Where you going?”
I grab my keys from the table. “A friend’s.”
“Well, I’m your best friend, so grab a controller. Come on. We haven’t hung out all week.”
“Sorry, bud.”
“Who are you ditching me for?”
“Later.”
“The fuck?” Shugar says, but he’s faking how upset he is.
I pull into Jenny’s driveway five minutes later behind her black Toyota Corolla. The late afternoon sun is shining on the front of her house, and all those fallen maple leaves are positively glowing with autumn light. Or maybe I’m just really high. I
t had sprinkled for a little bit, and the ground is still wet. The air smells sweet, like someone nearby had a fire pit going.
Her face appears at the doorway, stunned. “I never figured you to be a truck guy.”
“What did you think I’d be driving?”
“I don’t know. A ten-speed. Why do you have a pickup?”
“My dad bought it for me for my job.”
She furrows her eyebrows. “What do you do?”
“Shugar’s dad owns a small home-remodeling company. I work with them during vacations.”
She gives me this look, like me working construction is the most unbelievable thing. She squeezes my bicep and I pull it away. “But you’re so . . . delicate.” She laughs. “You’re like a little teacup.”
I say somewhat defensively, “I know how to wire a house. I know how to frame a house and put up sheetrock and install plumbing.”
“Is that what you want to do for a living?”
“I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. You remember those shows where they buy old houses, renovate them, and then sell them for a profit? That would be sweet.”
“But you’re a nerd.”
“Um, I’m actually a superhero. You probably didn’t know this, but I’m Captain America before he gets his injections.” Five seconds pass without a laugh from her, so I add, “The truth is I’m Dr. Bad Joke.”
“Well, the doctor is in.”
I smile. “Did you see that video on the news this . . . ?”
My voice trails off because she places her hand gently on my forearm. She’s looking at me like she wants to say something important.
She says, “Are you high? Your eyes are really red.”
I turn away because even though I’m high as fuck, I didn’t want her to know that. “No, I just threw some salt in my eyes.”
“Here, come inside. You really need to take a shower.” She grabs my hand and leads me to the basement, and I’m about to tell her I took a shower this morning, but I’m in her bathroom and she locks the door behind us.
“I, uh . . . I know how to shower. I don’t need a supervisor.”
Her fingertips draw down my chest, triggering a wave of tingling across my stomach. She wants to hook up with me again.
I say, “I promise I’ll last longer than three minutes.”
She laughs. “It’s okay. Everyone’s gotta have a first time.”
She unbuckles my belt, then undoes the button and zipper on my pants. She removes her top and a bouquet of her scent undoes me. She smells like Morning Mist fabric softener and some kind of flowery body lotion and a little bit of BO. I want her so hard, but I also want to grab her by the wrists and push her away and ask, What great deed did I do to end up in this locked bathroom with you?
Do you like me, Jenny? Do you think I’m hot? Do I make you laugh? Why are you doing this with me when there are so many other — and better — guys out there?
I stumble into the wall trying to hop off one of my socks. It takes me three tries to unhook her bra. My shirt lands partly in the toilet.
I kiss her neck.
She moans, then laughs a little.
I cup my hand on her left breast.
Steam pours out from above the plastic curtains.
We make out in the shower. We have sex in the shower and it’s hard to find a decent position because the tub’s so little. We rinse off and by that time the water is running pretty damn cold and I’m panting like I just got done with a run. She only has one towel and I let her dry off first. It’s sopping wet when she hands it to me.
She brushes her teeth while I remove my shirt from the toilet, then I pee with her next to me and it’s all so normal, like we’ve skipped ahead years into a relationship and, yeah, I’m okay with that.
She puts on her bra and pink boy shorts, checks herself out in the full-body mirror, then turns to the side and strikes a pose with a serious and kind of unattractive model face. Then she gets real close to the mirror, as if she’s inspecting for nose hairs. She pulls back the skin beneath her eyes with her pinky fingers, making her look like some stretched-face duck woman from Beverly Hills.
I say, “What am I going to do about my shirt?”
“God, I look like I’m eighty. These bags beneath my eyes are hideous.”
“You look like a senior in high school,” I say flatly.
Now she’s putting her hands on her hips, inspecting herself with critical, narrowed eyes. “Yeah, and I’ve lost my thigh gap.”
“Your what?”
“The space between my thighs. There used to be a thumbnail’s length, but now they’re touching.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Besides, who gives a damn about a thigh gap? She’s so gorgeous that every moment with her breaks my heart a little, like I’ll never have another moment with her again. The braces she wore in middle school now make her teeth look like a collection of pearls, neatly arranged and fitted for her mouth, and every time she smiles, I want to gently bite her lips and feel her teeth with my tongue. When she puts her hair behind her ear, I want to bite her jawbone.
Turns out I like biting things. I never knew that about myself before.
As I’m putting my pants back on, I say, “I was wondering something.”
“Yeah?”
“Were you high last night?”
She makes a face like a kid being forced to eat broccoli. “Oh, God no. I can’t stand weed. It makes me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. I was just hoping other people would take their clothes off.”
I remember the way she was dancing with Kyle. “Like who?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing sexual. I don’t know — it makes me feel like a kid. They always say, ‘Live each day as if it were our last.’ I think with all the news lately, it’s time we start doing that.”
I put my arms around her waist, my fingertips touching the dimples on her back, swaying her. “Okay. Let’s say the world’s going to end tomorrow. What would you do?”
“You wanna go down to the river?”
The only thing that appears in my head is the alien — I swear it was an alien — peering at me from Blue Grass Island. I’m not sure how I feel about going there. Am I scared?
I say, “I was thinking you were going to say something a little more adventurous.”
“Come on, we’re not going to have many more days before the weather gets bad.”
“You got it, dude.” I boop her nose with my index finger. “Do you have an extra shirt for me?”
“Go into my brother’s old room. It’s upstairs on the right.”
“He won’t mind if I borrow one?”
“No. He, um . . .”
“What?”
“He died in Raya over the summer.”
My heart belly-flops into my stomach. I take my hands off her and look at her reflection in the steamed-up mirror. I can’t think of anything to say, but apparently she doesn’t expect me to, because my weak attempt at saying “I’m sorry” gets muffled as she turns on her hair dryer.
So I walk upstairs shirtless, but Jenny’s parents aren’t here so it’s all good. I peek into their kitchen. The fridge is a collage of family photos. Her brother must have been eight, maybe ten years older than her. If Jenny didn’t dye her hair auburn and if she cut it short, if she lifted weights and had a butt chin, she would look exactly like him.
I’ve never seen a single picture of him posted on any of Jenny’s accounts.
He was number 54 on the football team. He was Danny Zuko in a high-school production of Grease. He taught Jenny how to swim.
I smile. Jenny as a toddler is a pretty hilarious thing. She’s wearing a polka-dot swimsuit, and she’s got such tiny baby teeth. One hand is splashing, and the other is desperately clenching on to a pool noodle. Her brother is by her side, and he’s maybe thirteen or fourteen at the time. There’s so much love in his eyes for his sister.
I go upstairs and the door to the room on the right is
unlocked. His parents have converted it into an office, but there’s still a queen-size bed. They probably changed his room over years ago, because I can’t detect a shred of personality in here. But his shirts are hanging in the closet. They’re all larges or extra larges. I take a green Lacoste shirt off its hanger and put it on. It smells stale. It’s way too big for me. The sun is shining through the window and there’s dust in the air.
I’ve never met the guy — I don’t even know his name — but already I love this family so much and I don’t want him to be dead.
I’m sitting on his bed, crying. It’s not my place to grieve over the death of someone I’ve never met. That belongs to his parents. It belongs to Jenny.
How come I had never heard of his death? I mean, if someone from Maumee had died in Raya, it would have been all over the local news.
But really, I don’t know much of anything that’s going on over there or why we’re at war. Maybe it’s because of oil or nuclear weapons or that terrorist group.
I wipe my face dry and go back downstairs where she’s waiting. She has on mascara and her hair is in a casual sideways braid.
“You ready?” she says.
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
I drive. She has her hand on my thigh. It’s nice out and the sky is really blue. There are a few trees clinging on to their dead leaves. The grass everywhere is still growing green. In that short drive, we’re quiet while some beautiful and repetitive Gas Station Wine song plays on the radio.
I park my truck in a gravel lot. We get out and follow a trail that takes us to the towpath. On Sundays it’s usually filled with families biking or young couples walking their dogs, but we have it all to ourselves. It’s as if everyone’s been abducted by aliens.
I want to ask about that script I found on her desk and her T-shirt ideas and where she came up with them. Was she planning on making a movie and opening her own line of clothing? But what I want to ask her the most is, is she looking for a boyfriend? Does she want me to be her boyfriend?
“What was your brother’s name?” I say.
“Alex.”
“You don’t have to answer this, but I was wondering: Why was he in Raya?”
